Meet Me on the Beach

by Hilary Boyd

  Will looked reluctant, but couldn’t refuse. He sat down on the edge of the armchair.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Karen asked.

  “Umm . . . just water would be fine.”

  “Oh, come on,” Jennifer said, “have a glass of something stronger. Don’t let me drink on my own.”

  Karen saw him hesitate. “OK, a glass of wine, if you’ve got a bottle open.”

  She knew he preferred red, and hurried to the kitchen to unscrew a Beaujolais she had in the cupboard. The top was stiff and she had to use a tea towel to get some purchase, anxious to get back to the sitting room quickly in case William decided to leave. She poured two glasses, handing one to the vicar when she returned to her guests.

  “Now,” Jennifer said, her smile one of satisfaction that she’d got her way, “I’ve got a little bit of a problem.” She told them that the owner of the estate agency Gardner Moss had suggested they sponsor the fête this year. “Everyone knows Giles Moss is my brother-in-law and I don’t want people to think I’m favoring his agency over all the others in the area. I’ve never been quite comfortable with this commercialization of the fête, but since we’ve got the Pimm’s tent now . . . I wanted your take, Vicar, before I put it to the committee, because I know people like Jeffrey will just say who cares, as long as we get the money.” She shook her head. “And obviously it is for a good cause.”

  William smiled. “I honestly don’t think there’s any harm. It’s how the world works these days.”

  Jennifer nodded sadly. “Not like the old days.”

  “No, but it’s not as if Gardner Moss is an arms manufacturer or a drug smuggler. Unless you know something we don’t?”

  “Ha! Certainly not. Giles is just as scrupulous as any estate agent ever is.” She winked at Karen, who couldn’t help laughing.

  They talked on for a while, the alcohol mellowing the trio, William’s need to go apparently forgotten.

  “Right, my dears, I must love you and leave you. Thanks so much, Karen. You’ve been marvelous, and in such ghastly circumstances.” Jennifer heaved herself upright, adjusted her floral cotton frock over her ample waist and said her goodbyes.

  Karen thought William would go with her, but he hovered as she shut the front door.

  They stood opposite each other in the dim hall. William was biting his lip, his hands clutching a scrunched-up copy of the stall plan that the chairman had given him. He looked at the floor. She felt her breath trapped in her chest like a solid lump.

  William glanced up toward the stairs. “Is Sophie home?”

  “No, she’s in London.”

  Now he finally looked at her. “Karen, I have to talk to you.”

  She nodded and led him back into the sitting room, where he resumed his perch on the armchair, she on the sofa.

  “I haven’t seen you about recently,” she said.

  “No . . . I’ve been on retreat in Norfolk. I hope to get to the abbey at least once a year.”

  She clutched her hands together tightly in her lap, not replying as she tried to keep the shivering that had suddenly overtaken her body under control.

  William hesitated, started to speak, then stopped. But when he looked up, there was real distress in his clear eyes.

  “Listen . . . I need to apologize to you . . .” He fell silent again.

  “Will—” she began.

  But he held up his hand to stop her. “No, please, let me finish.” He took a long breath. “I’ve been grossly unfair to you. You came to me for help when you were at your most vulnerable and I feel I’ve taken advantage of you.”

  Karen frowned. “You haven’t—”

  “Please. My behavior has been totally inappropriate.”

  “In what way?”

  He seemed surprised at her confusion. “Karen, I know you have . . . feelings for me. I’m not blind. And recently I’ve allowed you to think that those feelings were reciprocated. Which is unforgivable.”

  Karen swallowed hard; she felt as if she’d been slapped.

  “I’ve let you down,” he went on. “I put myself in a position of power over you, as a counselor . . . spiritual adviser . . . whatever you want to call it, after Harry’s death. It’s my job, I do it all the time. But it’s easy for that relationship to be misinterpreted.” He paused. “I should have known better. I should have stopped it months ago.”

  Karen stared at him. “So why didn’t you?”

  He looked away. “Why didn’t I? I suppose I wanted to help.”

  “That’s all, is it?”

  The vicar wouldn’t meet her eye.

  “I asked you, is that the only reason you didn’t stop our meetings?”

  “Of course.” His reply was firm, the expression in his eyes deliberately robust.

  But Karen could easily detect the lie. It wasn’t just that she wanted to, his eyes were like an open book, the lie shifting and sliding across the pages. She said nothing, allowing his words to hang in the air.

  He got up.

  “You know we can’t do this,” he said, then waited, staring at her, forcing her to agree.

  It was a challenge, his will against hers, his lie against her truth. But she refused to back down. Although she knew he was right in what he said, she was not going to agree about what he purported to feel. Be true to yourself, he had said in his sermon. The hardest thing.

  The room was almost dark now, the air leaden with their distress. She heard a small sigh escape him as he turned on his heel and left the room without another word. Nothing, she knew, was worth saying, anyway. They were in the wrong, and no words would put that right, however much they might try to justify their actions.

  Part Two

  Chapter Eight

  The dawn light, not called the “cold light of day” for nothing, laid bare Karen’s stark choice. And it did seem to be her choice, not William’s, to make. His chosen life path encompassed his vocation, his family, his future, all tied up into one indivisible bundle. Whereas she was a free agent. Nothing tied her now that Harry was gone. She had no allegiances, no responsibilities beyond her beloved Labrador, and no love for any person—except William, if she was allowed to call it love. So she could either stay where she was and pine, sit with him through committee meetings, bump into him on the hills, be friends with his wife, etc., all the while suppressing her real feelings for him and watching him suppress his feelings for her, or she could get out, get away from the village and try, without his constant presence in her life, to forget him.

  It seemed ludicrous, however, that she could ever forget him. Karen took her jacket from the hooks by the front door and waited for Largo to go out ahead of her as she checked she had her keys in her pocket. The late spring morning seemed to her to be unfairly beautiful and she felt her heart lifting almost against her will as she took in the luminous light breaking over the hills, breathed in the cool, clear air, heard the exuberant birdsong as a backdrop to the calm, people-free silence. The pain will diminish, Karen told herself as she made for the path up on to the Downs. You can’t love someone forever, not in isolation from their presence. It’s a fact, love fades, history backs me up on this. Then she heard the other voice clamoring in her head. Anything could happen, the voice insisted. But she couldn’t stay here, waste her life hoping for that thing—a thing, moreover, that was not only extremely unlikely but would inevitably bring trauma to those involved. It would not be good for her soul to wish that on others.

  I’ve got to leave, she had decided by the time she got to the crest of the hill. I’ll take Largo and go, find a rental somewhere for the next few months, leave Sophie to keep an eye on the house. Perhaps by September I’ll feel differently about William.

  *

  But she did nothing, beyond a cursory trawl of the Internet for holiday lets—of which there were almost none at this time of year. She just carried on with her usual routine, kept bumping into William—there had been another bloody committee meeting at the house only yesterday—kept agonizin
g about doing so, in a futile round of heart-thumping disappointment. Until that Sunday morning, when Karen had another fight with Sophie about the mess the girl relentlessly left in her wake.

  Perhaps Karen’s nerves were unusually frayed, or perhaps the self-imposed inaction of two perfectly fit and capable women was finally taking its toll, but increasingly Karen was becoming more and more finicky about the house. She found herself taking all the curtains down and having them dry-cleaned, hiring a steam vacuum for the carpets, clearing out old food from the kitchen cupboards—ancient chutney, peanut butter, pickles, jams, sauces—and washing out the old jars ready for marmalade in the winter. She was on a mission. But every time she felt she was getting on top of the work, Sophie would drag mud from her boots into the hall and up the stairs, or spill wine on the parquet floor, candle wax on the coffee table, or unearth boxes from the attic and strew their contents about the sitting room. And whereas in the past Karen might have been mildly annoyed, now it seemed almost as if her life were at stake if she couldn’t control the tidiness of the rectory.

  “For Christ’s sake, Sophie,” she exploded, mopping up yet another spill, this time coffee pooling around the idiotic new pod machine. “Can’t you ever clear anything up, ever?”

  Her stepdaughter, who was lounging in her dressing gown at the kitchen table, texting on her phone, looked up.

  “Sorry . . . I’d have done it in a minute.”

  “‘In a minute,’ it’s always in a minute, later, when you get around to it. But you never do. I’m fed up to the back teeth with your mess.”

  Sophie looked genuinely startled by the onslaught. “That’s a bit unfair.”

  “Is it? Is it really?” Karen couldn’t seem to calm down as she ran the dishcloth under the hot tap and wrung it out. “You’ve been lying about this house for months now, never lifting a finger, never contributing to the housework or the shopping. For instance, you’ve never once put the rubbish out or fed the dog. You just waste every goddamn minute of every day on that bloody phone. It’s got to stop.”

  “OK, OK, you only have to ask.”

  “That’s the problem. I shouldn’t have to ask. You’re not a fool, you can see what has to be done. Couldn’t you just, for once, help out without me saying anything?”

  Sophie’s face had hardened into a sulk. “God, keep your hair on, Karen. It’s not that bad.”

  “That’s what your father used to say about his drinking, ‘It’s not that bad.’ But it was that bad—in fact, it was a lot worse.”

  The girl got up, pulling her pink toweling dressing gown around her and tightening the belt. She began to clear the table of her breakfast things, her face solid with resentment.

  “What’s got into you?” she muttered, not looking at Karen, who stood by the sink, her heart lurching from beat to beat, knowing she was almost deliberately picking a fight and not knowing why, because things had been quiet between them for weeks now.

  “Boyfriend playing up, is he?”

  Karen heard the question without understanding it. “Boyfriend?”

  Sophie slammed the door of the dishwasher shut and stood, arms crossed over her chest, eyebrows raised as she met Karen’s eye.

  She was waiting for Karen to speak.

  “What are you talking about?”

  The girl gave a small smile. “I’ve seen you.”

  “Seen me? Seen what?”

  “You and the vicar.”

  Karen’s breath caught in her throat. “Me and Reverend Haskell . . . don’t be ridiculous.” And when Sophie continued staring at her with that knowing grin, she added, “What exactly are you insinuating, Sophie?”

  She gave an exaggerated shrug. “Ooh, nothing. Just I’ve seen the way you look at each other . . . and then there’s all those cozy walks in the hills . . . Easter Day, when you gave each other really odd looks, which I didn’t understand at the time. But the clincher was yesterday . . .” She paused for effect. “When I came past the kitchen after the fête meeting and you were holding hands—” She stopped.

  “We were not holding hands,” Karen said quickly, remembering the moment when he’d brought through the tray of tea things and asked her if she was alright, and she’d said she was—untruthfully—and William had given her hand a quick squeeze. Karen hadn’t seen Sophie at the door.

  “Whatever,” said Sophie.

  Karen didn’t know what to do. “William is not my boyfriend, Sophie. I told you, he’s just being kind to me.” Even to herself, she was cringingly unconvincing.

  Her stepdaughter turned away. “Don’t worry, Karen, I won’t dob you in. Just don’t take it out on me because your little affair isn’t going the way you planned.” And with that she stalked out of the room, floating on the moral high ground with a heavy waft of smugness.

  Karen took a long breath. It was horrible to think of Sophie watching her—watching them—all this time, clocking their every glance. And it was worrying too. The girl had said she wouldn’t tell, but Sophie—although not a mean person, Karen thought—could be volatile, she’d seen it many times when Harry was alive. Quick to take offense, her stepdaughter was quite capable, if roused, of blurting something out at an inopportune moment . . . it really didn’t bear thinking about.

  Karen, galvanized by Sophie’s revelation, hurried to the office and turned on her computer. She rarely used it except for shopping or personal email these days—there was no need since she’d stopped working—but for the next hour she was pinned to the screen, searching desperately through pages and pages of holiday rentals, finding one that might suit, only to discover there were just one or two weeks free till autumn. Most didn’t allow pets, or were too big or miles away from anywhere. But she had to get away from William Haskell. And, almost more importantly, she had to remove herself from her stepdaughter and her knowing looks.

  *

  “Is that Mike Best?” By the following day Karen had found a studio flat by the sea on the Sussex coast. An individual ad, not through an agency, which gave basic details but no availability.

  “That’s me,” a voice eventually replied.

  “I’m inquiring about the rental.”

  “Right.”

  He wasn’t being very helpful, but she plowed on.

  “Is it still available?”

  “Yeah. Interested?”

  “How long could I have it for?”

  “How long d’you want it for?”

  “Umm . . . two, three months?”

  There was silence at the other end.

  “Or less, if that’s too long.”

  “No . . . no, s’pose that’d be OK . . . can you hold on a minute?”

  Another silence, where she heard him asking someone if they wanted milk in their tea.

  “Right, sorry. So you want to see the place?”

  “Please.”

  “It’s only a bedsit . . . ‘studio’ they call ’em these days, but it’s basically a room with a bed in it and a bathroom and kitchen. Small. My daughter lived there, but she’s moved away now and it’s been sitting empty . . .” He paused. “If you want to take a look, I’ll be in the café across the street, The Shed. Drop in when you can and I’ll give you the tour.”

  “Thanks, I should be there in an hour.”

  *

  Mike Best was busy when Karen arrived. It had indeed taken her an hour to drive there from home. A safe enough distance, by her calculations. And a very different environment. Karen loved the sea and stood taking a long breath of the cool salty air as soon as she’d parked the car. There was a fresh wind today and the faded blue awning on the café front was billowing up and down like a sail.

  She stood in the queue of people, watching the proprietor. He was probably about Karen’s age, medium height, wiry and very muscled, his short greying hair sticking up in a chaotic fashion and a deep tan highlighting his fierce blue eyes. He was wearing a black round-necked T-shirt, jeans and a black apron sporting a stick-on image of a lobster. He raised his eyebrow
s at Karen.

  “What can I get you?”

  She introduced herself.

  “OK. Listen, the girl’s gone on a break, but as soon as she’s back I’ll take you over. Have a seat and I’ll get you a coffee.”

  She did as he asked, feeling a huge sense of relief at being away from home and the village.

  The café was a modern, single-story concrete block right on the pebble beach. It was painted sea-blue, with wall-to-wall sliding glass doors on the beach side, leading to a wooden deck, furnished both inside and out with pale wooden tables and stylish mustard-yellow plastic and chrome chairs. The walls had prints of album covers from seventies bands—Led Zeppelin, King Crimson, Jimi, Bowie—with the serving area stretching along the back of the café, fronted by a chill-cabinet containing little pies, quiches, scones, white plastic containers of sandwich fillings, a bowl of large, fresh prawns with their shells on, and a separate section for cakes. It had a bright, clean, efficient atmosphere, which boded well, Karen thought, for the flat.

  *

  “Whaddaya think?” Mike asked her, standing by the door of the living room with his arms crossed.

  She looked around. It was minimally furnished and small, as Mike had warned. But it was light and fresh, painted in buttermilk, the glass doors leading to a narrow balcony overlooking the sea. The kitchen and shower room were modern, the living space had stripped pine flooring, a gray sofa bed, coffee table, small flat-screen television and oval table with two of the yellow café chairs.

  Could I stay here? she asked herself, suddenly anxious. Can I imagine myself waking up here, alone, knowing nobody close by? And the more she imagined it, the calmer she felt, but with a small knot of excitement at the prospect. She looked at her prospective landlord, who was eyeing her with interest.

  “Holiday, is it?”

  She nodded, then shook her head. “More of a break . . . not sure what my plans are at the moment.”

  “OK, well, if it suits we can do a month, then see what happens. I wasn’t going to rent it out, but it looks as if Kim, my daughter, won’t be coming back—she’s over Southsea now, moved in with her boyfriend, which has caused me a shedload of hassles because she used to work for me and the girl I’ve got now hasn’t a brain in her head. Literally, not one single brain cell.” He stopped, let out a sigh accompanied by a wry grin. “Anyhow, you don’t want to know my life story. If you want it, it’s yours.”